[ Gray isn't actually sure why Mordred thinks that anyone would blame her in the event of Gray's death. She has to wonder how often Mordred gets blame pinned on her, for truth or not...
But Gray doesn't protest out loud, and sits when commanded (and forced) to sit. It's an odd and unexpected courtesy when Mordred looks away, to the point where it takes Gray a moment to realize what the other girl is waiting for, but once she gets the picture she slowly settles her hands on the edges of her hood.
Removing it in the company of other people is taboo. No one imposed this rule on her (until she met her mentor); it's a wall constructed from her own mind, thin cloth made concrete to protect her from the stares of others. Even though she inevitably has to lower it at least once a day, the act of doing so now feels completely alien. But it helps that Mordred is looking away, and it's easier than expected for her to tug the fabric back, air immediately assaulting her exposed skin.
It doesn't take much effort to loosen her bandages from here, though she frowns gingerly as she unsticks the last of it. Her wound is one giant gash that stretches over the bridge of her nose from cheek to brow, though the chaos of discoloration and ruptured, bloodied skin defies easy delineation. It encroaches on one of her eyes, which she tactfully keeps closed even if Mordred would say she's seen worse. She takes a breath, fidgets a little, before finally speaking up, her gaze lowered. ]
no subject
But Gray doesn't protest out loud, and sits when commanded (and forced) to sit. It's an odd and unexpected courtesy when Mordred looks away, to the point where it takes Gray a moment to realize what the other girl is waiting for, but once she gets the picture she slowly settles her hands on the edges of her hood.
Removing it in the company of other people is taboo. No one imposed this rule on her (until she met her mentor); it's a wall constructed from her own mind, thin cloth made concrete to protect her from the stares of others. Even though she inevitably has to lower it at least once a day, the act of doing so now feels completely alien. But it helps that Mordred is looking away, and it's easier than expected for her to tug the fabric back, air immediately assaulting her exposed skin.
It doesn't take much effort to loosen her bandages from here, though she frowns gingerly as she unsticks the last of it. Her wound is one giant gash that stretches over the bridge of her nose from cheek to brow, though the chaos of discoloration and ruptured, bloodied skin defies easy delineation. It encroaches on one of her eyes, which she tactfully keeps closed even if Mordred would say she's seen worse. She takes a breath, fidgets a little, before finally speaking up, her gaze lowered. ]
W-Whenever you're ready.